


A Peculiar Woman in the Park

by greenieboy



Category: 9 to 5 the Musical - Parton/Resnick
Genre: 1880s au, F/F, Romance, painter!judy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenieboy/pseuds/greenieboy
Summary: "The woman’s smile brightened somehow, and Judy wished she knew this woman. She wanted to be friends with this woman, see her on Sundays when things were slow and sluggish and paint her when the sun was hardly in the sky. She wanted to take afternoon tea with the woman, walk under one parasol together, exchange spring flowers and make daisy crowns. Judy didn’t understand this longing that had washed over her as she watched the woman carefully take up her canvas and easel, walking beside her, but it was dizzying and potent, like a bottle of strong wine."Painter AU set in the 1880s. Judy is a teacher at a preparatory school, and she paints Violet in the park one day and falls in love with her.
Relationships: Judy Bernly/Violet Newstead
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> thank to galentines for the beta !!

Her shoes on the cobblestone path were just about the only thing Judy could hear at the moment. The park was quiet, and a bit lifeless, and she was surprised to see no children playing in the piles of dead leaves. It was too late in the day for classes to be held; Judy should know. She had dismissed her late class over an hour ago. The young adolescents had practically been clawing to leave the stifling classroom and venture into the cool fall day just beyond the door, and so had Judy. It was the perfect weather for painting. She carried her easel and canvas under one arm, clutching her picnic basket with her paintbox slung over her shoulder. It felt so eerie to be the park when it was so empty. Judy nearly wanted to hold her breath. She glanced around, scouting for a location to paint. She had painted the gardener tending to the flowers the previous week and the old gentlemen playing cards the week before. Judy preferred to paint the lush greenery of the park. In fact, she was nearly out of green paint. Humming softly to herself, she looked away from the foliage and pursed her lips; she would paint the lakeside today. She stepped off the stone path, onto the grass, hoping the gardener wouldn’t mind. Old Jack hardly ever had a problem with Judy on the grass, only because she wasn’t a rowdy bunch of children.

Judy stopped just a few yards before a bench facing the lake. Her eyes took in the scene; this was today’s spot. She placed her things down, retrieving the blanket from her picnic basket and laying out on the grass. It wouldn’t do to stain the new skirt her mother had sent last month. She set out her easel, angled toward the bench, placing the canvas on it neatly. Next came the paints and brushes. Judy tied on a short apron, pulled her gloves off, and squeezed a few tubes of paint onto her palette, occasionally glancing up to see what colors she needed. She mixed a few, cheek caught in between her teeth as she focused. Then, finally, came the painting. With a brush, she began. It was harder to focus on her painting without the usual noises of the park. Judy preferred the noise; it grounded her to her spot, rather than allowing her to float away and lose track of time. She reached down for a minute, into her basket, picking out the sandwich she had brought with her from the school.

“Oh darn,” muttered Judy some time later, realizing she hadn’t mixed enough yellow for the sun’s reflection on the lake. She pursed her lips, bending to find her yellow paint. When she stood upright again, she paused. There was a woman sitting on the bench before her. Judy hadn’t painted the bench yet, but she hadn’t been anticipating painting humans. Without much consideration, she bent down again and took out more paints, mixing until she had the woman’s shades. Then she continued painting. The woman was quite lovely if a bit odd. She wore black trousers like a man and a nice pair of Balmoral boots, with a grey waistcoat. Her overcoat was slung over the bench, and if Judy hadn’t seen her dark blonde hair in the sun, she might have mistaken the woman for a man. She was reading, a novel Judy assumed, and she looked very focused. Judy found she very much enjoyed painting her. A peculiar woman in the park.

It was much later than Judy intended to stay out when she was finally content with her work. It wasn’t done - and she had plans to finish it in the confines of her bedroom at the school - but it was good enough that she no longer needed her model. Judy was sorry, though; she didn’t feel very inclined to leave. Not if the woman wasn’t leaving. But her watch told her it was a quarter until five, and she needed to return to the school before dinner. Packing away her paints, she stole one last glance at the woman on the bench. She had risen from her seat and was pulling her overcoat on. Judy smiled; now she was content to leave. She moved her easel carefully, taking up her blanket and folding it. She tucked it into her basket, along with the rubbish from her snack. Her paints and brushes were returned to their box, cleaned in the handy jar of water she had remembered to bring this time around. She was then faced with how to transport her painting home when she heard, “May I see what you’ve been painting?”

Judy jerked, turning to find the woman stand beside her easel. “Excuse me?” She stammered.

The woman smiled gently, “I noticed you were painting when I arrived. I was curious as to what.”

Judy flushed red, biting her lip. Goodness, this was a terrible predicament. She hadn’t asked the woman if she were allowed to paint her, and now she wanted to see the painting. “Oh, it - it isn’t finished,” said Judy.

“May I see it anyway?” Judy felt as if she were about to faint from embarrassment. Surely this was a lesson from God not to paint strangers anymore. Stiffly, Judy nodded her head and stepped to her right, allowing the woman to stand beside her and observe the painting. She heard the woman’s breathing hitch, and her lovely blue eyes widened as they scanned over the canvas. “Oh…” She murmured.

Judy spoke nervously, “I - I’m very sorry. I should have asked your permission to paint you, but I had already been painting the scene and you appeared so suddenly, and I…” She trailed off as another smile worked its way across the woman’s face.

“This is very good,” said the woman, disregarding Judy’s frightful babbling. She glanced out of the corner of her eye. “Do you paint often?”

“As often as I can,” was Judy’s reply.

“Well,” the woman stated, straightening her posture. “You have talent, that much is obvious.” Judy blushed, leaning toward the woman a bit.

“I have?” She questioned.

The woman nodded, “Yes, I would say so. This looks like something one would observe in a salon in Paris.”

Judy held her hands behind her back, smiling bashfully. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Judy bit her lip, glancing away as she untied her apron. Who was this woman? She was so confident, and cool, and her voice was like tea with honey. And she was very, very tall. Judy was taller than most, but this woman towered over her. It was no wonder she wasn’t wearing heels, or else she would bump her head on the sky. She was much prettier up close, Judy noted, as she took in the woman like she was the painting. Actually, she was gorgeous. Judy could feel her heart beating faster than normal as she continued to look at her. She turned, clasping her paintbox closed, once more pulling it over her shoulder.

“I’m afraid I need to be going,” said Judy regretfully.

The woman nodded, turning her gaze to Judy. “Your hands look a bit full,” she noted. “How will you take your canvas with you?”

“Well, I - I was going to, um - I-”

The woman smiled again, brilliant and bright. “Let me help you,” she said.

And how can Judy say no to a voice, a smile, a face like that? So she said, “If you’d like,” and that was that. The woman’s smile brightened somehow, and Judy wished she knew this woman. She wanted to be friends with this woman, see her on Sundays when things were slow and sluggish and paint her when the sun was hardly in the sky. She wanted to take afternoon tea with the woman, walk under one parasol together, exchange spring flowers and make daisy crowns. Judy didn’t understand this longing that had washed over her as she watched the woman carefully take up her canvas and easel, walking beside her, but it was dizzying and potent, like a bottle of strong wine. Judy thought the sun may have been getting to her, but truthfully, it wasn’t warm enough to be credible. Perhaps Judy was simply lonely. Her only friends were the other teachers at the school. And Doralee. But Doralee lived with her husband on the other side of the city, and they only ever had a chance to see one another once every two weeks or so. Although, this woman looked rather upper-class, like Doralee. Sophisticated, well dressed, well-mannered. Judy blushed, realizing she was in the company of someone who must have been very well-to-do.

“Have you ever been to Paris?” asked Judy, softly.

“Hm?”

Judy glanced at the woman. “You mentioned salons in Paris. I - I wondered if you’ve ever been there,” Judy reiterated, forcing her eyes to focus on the street as they left the park together.

The woman nodded, looking at Judy. “Yes, I’ve been,” she said. “Only once, but it was a lovely city. Though, it is a little less glamorous than everyone believes it to be.” Judy nodded her head thoughtfully. She had never even left New York, let alone America. She supposed she had been correct, though; this woman was well-to-do. She suddenly wondered what the woman was doing talking to Judy. Surely there were more interesting things to do in her life than talk to a poor school teacher who could barely afford paints and rent. Except, the woman was not aware Judy was a school teacher, though she would be soon. The school was only a few more minutes away. “Have you ever seen Paris?” The woman asked after a brief pause.

Judy shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to,” she replied, sighing wistfully. She smiled then, saying, “My instructor was from France, though. He taught me everything.” Judy hadn’t thought of her old mentor, Henri. He was tall, taller than the woman beside her, and he wore thin circle glasses on the bridge of his nose. When he spoke in English, he had a thick accent that nobody besides Judy could comprehend. Henri had been firm, thorough, capable. He had also been kind. Judy suddenly missed him very much. She inhaled deeply, adding, “And my grandmother was born in Nice.”

The nodded, with a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Do you speak French?” She asked.

Judy blushed, “Oh, juste un peu.” Judy taught French at the school, but she hardly spoke it outside of her lessons anymore. Of course, she didn’t have many people in her personal life to speak French with.

“Mm,” the woman hummed. She was quiet for a moment, observing Judy with her steely eyes. Judy felt a heat in her chest under the woman’s gaze, like an fire just being lit, only getting hotter. The woman clicked her tongue. “It’s very unusual for a woman to be a painter.”

Judy bit her lip. “Well, it’s unusual for a woman to wear a suit,” she quipped softly, “and yet, here we are.”

The woman grinned, laughing. Judy thought her laugh was so lovely; it made her stomach swarm with butterflies. She nudged Judy, smirking, “You aren’t entirely wrong.” And Judy couldn’t help but smile. She wondered how she could stay in contact with this woman. She could ask for her address, or if she had a location to send telegraphs. The woman paused for a moment, running a hand through her hair. Judy watched her. Or, she could not ask anything and hope to see her at the park again someday. The woman clearly was from a different standard of living than Judy; perhaps they were only meant to meet once. Judy didn’t like the sound of that, but she was too anxious to do anything about it. Instead, she cursed internally at the cruelness of the universe as the preparatory school she taught at grew closer. Then, they were standing outside the front doors, and Judy was loath to leave the woman. She sniffled, glancing up at the sky. When had it gotten so dark? It nearly looked as if it was about to rain.

“Thank you,” Judy said softly, walking up the steps to the door and reaching for her canvas and easel from the woman. “For helping me, I mean.”

The woman nodded, following Judy up the steps, “Let me take these inside for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Judy murmured, opening the door and taking the easel. She rested it by the doorway “The maid lets me leave this by the doorway so long as nobody trips over it.”

“Ah, okay,” said the woman. Then, she turned the painting over to Judy, and she swore she saw a flash of sadness in the woman’s eyes. Judy frowned; she was projecting. The woman shoved her hands into her coat pockets, and she was soon smirking again. She cleared her throat, “Well, it was lovely meeting you…”

“Judy. Judy Bernly,” supplied Judy. She held out her hand, and the woman shook it. Then the woman was off down the steps, swiftly descending as Judy watched her from the doorway. Judy smiled, entering the school and carefully climbing the stairs to her bedroom with the still-wet painting in her hands. She smiled to a few students, greeting some for a moment or two as she went by. They all gawked and stared at her painting; Judy knew some of them were interested in taking art lessons. She still needed to bring that up to Mister Hart. She mostly taught French lessons, and occasionally writing when Miss Keith couldn’t - which was becoming more and more frequent. Judy had wanted to be an artist, but she feared she wasn’t good enough to support herself on art alone. Teaching gave her a place to stay for cheap, a steady (if small) income, and students to nurture. She did miss being young and going to Henri’s studio in the early mornings, her only care being to finish her latest piece. Now she had essays to grade.

It wasn’t until Judy had reached her bedroom, propped her canvas on the easel by her window and hung her bags in the closet when she realized she hadn’t learned the woman’s name. Her heart shattered, and she ran to the window, throwing it open and hoping against all hope the woman would be there still. Never had she felt so distraught before in all her life. It was as if God had answered her prayers when she saw the woman, standing there in her overcoat. Judy grinned, her heart leaping like a frog into a pond. She poked her head out, “Hello!”

The woman looked up. “Judy?” She questioned, an incredulous smile on her face.

“Yes,” Judy giggled. She brushed hair from her face, nervous. “I - I realized on my way up that I didn’t catch your name.”

“Violet,” said the woman. “My name is Violet.”

Judy grin grew larger. “It’s very lovely to meet you, Violet,” she exclaimed.

“And you, Judy,” came Violet’s reply. Then, she was walking away, down the street. She peered over her shoulder. “I’ll see you around sometime.”

Judy nodded, watching her go with a dopey smile. “Yes, I hope so,” she said softly. Violet most likely hadn’t heard her, but Judy’s words had really been intended as a quiet prayer, in hopes that she did see Violet again. And again. And again.

  
  


It rained not long after Judy shut her window. Sighing, she slipped out of her shoes and peeled her stockings off. She shuddered as her bare feet touched the cool wooden floor. The stack of essays on her desk taunted her, and Judy was well aware she needed to grade them. But her mind kept running back to Violet, and her very long legs, and her smile. Violet had told her she would see Judy around sometime. Judy hoped dearly that was true. Her heart hammered in her chest, and Judy knew it wouldn’t do to feel this way all afternoon. She trotted across the cold floor, blowing warm air onto her hands, to the small hearth across from her window. Judy placed a couple of coals inside - courtesy of Miss Keith - along with that morning’s newspaper as kindling. She struck a match and dropped it, watching the fire slowly begin to spread to the rest of the paper. Soon, heat was radiating from the hearth, filling Judy’s room with warmth. She exhaled deeply, sitting before the fire for a moment. She jolted at the knock on her door.

“Miss Bernly?” came a young voice, soft and shy.

Judy rose to her feet, tucking hair behind her ears as she unlatched her door and opened it. “Hello?” There stood a pupil of hers, Emmeline Georges. She was a bright young girl, if very distractible. Stiff as a board in front of Judy, she grasped a few papers in her hands, her eyes wide and worried. Judy allowed the door to open further. “Good evening, Emmeline. Was there something you needed?”

“Y-Yes,” sputtered the girl. She held out the papers to Judy, her hands shaking just a little. “I finished today’s essay, and I was going to inquire about my grade on last week’s essay.”

Judy accepted the papers from Emmeline, turning on her heel and entering her room. She scanned the contents quickly before adding it to the stack on her desk “Give me one moment, will you? And shut the door, please. I have a fire going and I don’t want to lose heat.” She said over her shoulder, fingertips trailing over her desk to locate the essay’s from the prior week. She held her tongue between her teeth, furrowing her brow as she flicked through the endless papers on the desk. “Aha!” She exclaimed with a smile, holding the paper high above her head. “Here we are!” She extended the paper to Emmeline, smiling, “You know you would have gotten this back tomorrow, right?”

Emmeline nodded bashfully. “Yes, but my father is coming home tonight, and mother wants to show him how much better my French has become.”

Judy nodded, “I see. Well, you’ve improved greatly from the start of the year. I just hope you’re prepared to begin conversations.”

“I should hope,” giggled the girl. Her eyes drifted behind Judy, and her expression grew amazed. She pointed, “Did - did you paint that, miss?”

Judy glanced behind herself, to the painting of Violet. “Oh, yes. I started it today, but I’m afraid it isn’t finished yet,” replied Judy, moving toward the canvas. It looked different in this lighting. Judy pursed her lips, suddenly wishing Violet’s features were more visible. Violet’s face was still fresh in her mind. Perhaps, she could-

“Who’s that? On the bench?” Asked Emmeline, taking a step forward.

“Her name is Violet,” Judy answered.

“She looks very lovely.” Emmeline set her lips. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Judy shook her head. “No, she isn’t,” she said regretfully. For, Judy sorely wished they were friends. “I met her in the park. She asked to see my painting.”

“Did she like it?”

Judy smiled nervously, waving Emmeline off. “She said she did, so I hope she wasn’t lying.” Her eyes darted to the clock on her wall then, and she released a breath of air. “I believe it’s time for you to be going, young lady. We wouldn’t want you to be late getting home, would we?” Emmeline nodded, tucking her paper under her arm as she walked to Judy’s door. She left with a wave, shutting the door firmly behind herself, leaving Judy alone in her bedroom. 

She stole one look at the essays again, shaking her head. Not now. With clumsy fingers, Judy reached for her sketchbook and a pencil, pulling a chair close to the hearth as she flipped open the pages. It was getting rather full; she would need to purchase a new one soon. Judy would mentally plan out how long it would take to save for another sketchbook later, for her pencil was upon blank paper the moment she saw it. She drew what she recalled of Violet: her arched brows, and her soft smirk, and her lovely eyes, and her wondrous cheekbones. Her fingers worked until they ached, and even then Judy didn’t stop. She tried to pinpoint as many details about Violet as she could remember; she didn’t ever want to forget Violet. It wasn’t until the sun had set and the door had been knocked on to alert Judy that it was supper time that Judy finally laid her pencil down. The sketch was rushed, and a bit crude, but it looked like Violet. Or, as well as Judy remembered Violet. Judy didn’t know Violet, and yet she missed her dearly. It was most peculiar. Judy had never taken to someone quite so quickly before. But she had known Violet for a total of less than fifteen minutes, and she was already dreaming of their next meeting. Judy would have to go to the park again.

“Miss Bernly?” called the maid, knocking once more.

“Coming,” replied Judy, rising from her chair. She set the sketchbook down, sliding her shoes back on - though without stockings - as she made her way to the door. She swung open to see Kathy on the other side, holding a broom and a bit of paper.

“A telegram came for you a couple of hours ago, dear,” said Kathy, handing the paper to Judy. “I believe it’s from Missus Rhodes.”

Judy smiled, unfurling the paper. “Fantastic! Thank you, Kathy,” said Judy, walking past her. She read the telegram quickly as she paced down the stairs.

_Judy, I had to cancel an event tomorrow around three in the afternoon (I will tell you about it. The story is absurd), and I was hoping I could come by and see you instead. I’m sure you’ve painted plenty since last I saw you. I know your lessons end at two-thirty, so I’ll be there around then. I hope you don’t mind me coming. Yours, Doralee._

Judy snickered; Doralee’s telegrams never sounded like they were from her. They always sounded so refined and posh, and not at all like Doralee with her very thick southern accent. Still, she was coming to see Judy tomorrow. Judy felt very giddy, racing down the last few steps and swinging the corner toward the kitchen. She greeted a few staff, smiling and waving with the telegram in her hand, hoping Chef had made her favorite soup today. He always made it on Thursdays for Judy. The other teachers and staff had their favorites, but only Kathy and Judy were close enough to Chef to have their favorites made especially. The scent invading Judy’s nose as she neared the kitchen told her Chef had made exactly that: her favorite.

“Good evening, Chef!” Judy grinned, entering the kitchen.

“Excuse me.”

Judy paled. Goodness, the headmaster’s wife was there. She was talking with Chef, or rather bickering at him. Perhaps she didn’t like soup. Her eyes landed on Judy, and she quieted, smiling softly and leaving in a hurry. Judy watched her exit, holding her breath until it was just her and Chef. The man looked irritated and tense. Chef was not made that way easily, but Judy couldn’t imagine what the headmaster’s wife could have said to him. Probably more of the same. She was typically complaining.

“Everyone’s a critic, eh?” Judy joked, cracking a nervous smile.

“If only it weren’t true,” replied Chef, and finally he smiled at her. He pushed a bowl of soup and bread to her. “Are you eating in the dining room tonight?”

Judy shook her head, “No, I’ll take dinner in my room. I have some work to finish.”

“And is that actual work? Or another painting?” questioned Chef, smirking knowingly at Judy. Judy raised her shoulders halfheartedly. The man chuckled, shaking his head. “You ought to sell those paintings, Judy. They’d make you a fortune.”

Judy sighed, “Perhaps. But I don’t know if I could part with any of them.” She took the food in her hand and retreated from the kitchen, back up the stairs, and to her room once more. She set the bowl on her desk, along with the abandoned essays she would not be grading together, and Judy found herself drawn back to her sketch of Violet. It looked rather lovely. Judy suddenly inhaled, reaching for her paintbox and retrieving the colors needed for Violet. She squeezed and mixed and tested until she was sure everything was perfect. With her paintbrush barely centimeters from the paper, Judy wondered if Violet was becoming an obsession. It had only been a day, if not less time than that, but Judy found she was so drawn to Violet. Perhaps her feelings would calm if Judy painted the woman and got Violet out of her system. That sounded logical. She pressed her paintbrush to the page swiftly.

Her soup was cold as ice by the time Judy had finished.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nO BETA !! aha this is prolly riddled with errors but xoxo

“Etudiez ce soir!” Judy called to the class as her pupils scurried to pack and vacate the room. “We’re reviewing both sections three and four tomorrow, and you  _ will _ be graded.” There was a collective groan that made Judy want to chuckle, but she refrained as the last of her students scrambled from their seats to the door. It wasn’t long before Judy was alone. Sighing, she straightened her back and listened to it crack. The nose was quite dreadful, but the relief that flooded her was worth it. Judy wanted to fall onto the floor in a heap and sleep for the next several decades; she barely slept the night before, so consumed with painting. Judy carried herself to her desk, falling into the chair and gazing out the massive window. The park wasn’t so far off, and the idea of returning tempted Judy like nothing else. She wondered dully, with her hand tucked under her chin as she stared, if Violet were there now, sitting on that beach, reading, perhaps even glancing expectantly to where Judy had stood only the day before. What if she was waiting there, waiting to see Judy again.

Oh what Judy wouldn’t give to see Violet again. She had dreamed about the woman, after spending a number of hours that stretched well into the morning painting her likeness. She couldn’t recall details per se, only Violet’s face. And her hands. Hands that touched her face, her shoulders, her hips, her - Judy felt hot suddenly, and she gulped down air, trying not to let the heat consume her. Glancing down, Judy noticed her own hand trembling slightly, and she leaned back against her chair. Thinking of Violet had the strangest effect on her, and Judy wasn’t sure she could handle much more. She chided herself mentally for not finding the courage to ask for Violet’s address. Sure, she could practically throw herself out the window just to learn Violet’s name, but that had, apparently, been the extent of her bravery. Now all she had was a name, a face, and two paintings. With the painting from the park in mind, Judy rose from her desk and collected her bag, shucking on her coat and leaving her classroom behind for the cool air of the hall.

With swift steps, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, opening the door with a gasp. Stood at the canvas by her window was Doralee, a hand on her chin. Judy swallowed; she had forgotten Doralee was coming. Goodness she was a mess, wasn’t she? Doralee’s telegram had just arrived yesterday night, and already it had slipped her mind. Judy shook her head, entering her room and clearing her throat. Doralee paid her no mind, and Judy pursed her lips at the woman. Depositing her bag by the desk in her room, Judy reached to undo the bun holding her hair prisoner, sighing at the release of pressure from her head. Languidly, she approached her friend. She was always so anxious to share her work with others, but Doralee had managed to be the exception. Judy had come to love Doralee’s praise and critiques. She was sure Doralee was the only person who could comment on an errant brushstroke and not make Judy dissolve into a fit of tears.

“So,” said Judy as she peered over Doralee’s shoulder. “What do you think?”

Doralee’s eyes flickered to her for a brief second before returning to the canvas. “It ain’t done, is it?” was all Doralee asked, her southern drawl deep. Judy exhaled, moving away from the woman to sit on her bed.

“It is not,” replied Judy. “I started it yesterday afternoon.”

Doralee nodded. “It’s lovely, Judy,” she said simply. “I like the colors... and the brushwork.” Judy flushed. She was awful at receiving praise, even if it was from Doralee. The woman pursed her lips, then, finally turning her whole attention to Judy. “Who’s on the bench?”

Judy stiffened, smiling a very nervous smile. “Well, you see - I erm… I met her - yesterday, after I had begun painting,” Judy answered. “She appeared on the bench out of nowhere - before I had gotten to paint that section, so I… painted her too.”

Doralee leaned toward the canvas, and Judy thought she looked as though she were scrutinizing it. “That’s a woman?” She questioned. Judy nodded, and she pressed her lips tight to withhold a slew of rambling centered around Violet from escaping into the air of her bedroom. Doralee tilted her head, and Judy thanked god she was more focused on the art before her. “It looks like she’s dressed in a suit.”

Judy hummed her affirmation. “She was. It was… strange.” She tried not to sound so dreamy - that was oft the case when she thought of Violet - but her voice had the airiness of a yearning sigh. Doralee gazed at her, curiosity painted onto her features. Judy felt as though she were now the one being examined rather than the canvas.

“Did you ask for her name?” Asked Doralee.

Judy bit her lip, and she shook her head slowly. “I… didn’t, no. I do wish I had.” Guilt flooded her chest, and she felt very bad for lying. The truth was, she hadn’t intended on telling Doralee, or really anyone for that matter, about Violet. She wanted the woman to be her little secret. Violet was for her private paintings, and apparently her nighttime dreams, and a part of Judy wanted to keep her that way. If Doralee knew about Violet, she would encourage Judy to seek her out, and Judy wasn’t sure she was capable of doing that. The very idea sent a jolt of fear up Judy’s spine.

Doralee sighed. “Damn. She coulda modeled for the rest of the process.”

Judy shook her head, smiling. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Doralee raised her eyebrow before shrugging her shoulders. “If you say so.” Judy sighed, relieved, as Doralee approached her. “Anyways, I  _ have _ ta tell ya about what happened to me yesterday because it is _ ridiculous. _ You’d think that after livin’ here for so many years that people would understand me, but-”

Judy nodded along, half listening to Doralee and half wishing she were back in the park with Violet, sharing fruits and pastries in the autumn sun. She loved Doralee, truly, but the woman sure knew how to talk on and on and on. Judy hardly ever had enough focus for their one-sided conversations. But Doralee was her closest friend, so Judy willingly attempted to appear as though she were listening. It was the least she could do. As the woman continued to prattle on (something or other about one of her wealthy friends being incredibly rude about Doralee’s southern accent), Judy’s mind wallowed in thoughts of Violet, thoughts that made her fingertips tingle and her toes curl. Her heart was pounding an unruly rhyme in her chest, and Judy thought for a moment that she might have a fever from how warm she felt.

“Are you feelin’ alright, Judy?” Asked Doralee suddenly, and Judy was hit with a wave of embarrassment.

“Y-Yes, sorry,” she replied, brushing hair from her face. “Please, continue.”

Doralee eyed her suspiciously. “Hm... Well, then I told Marie-”

Three loud knocks on Judy’s door resounded through her bedroom. She rose up from her bed, saying, “Let me.” Doralee nodded, crossing her arms over her chest, as Judy made her way to the door, pulling it open. She was greeted by Kathy, with a broom in one hand and a letter in the other.

“This just came for you, miss,” she said, shoving the letter into Judy’s chest quickly. Without another word, she was gone down the stairs and out of Judy’s sight.

“Thank you,” called Judy from her doorway into the emptiness of the corridor. She closed the door, eyeing the letter in her hand. It was addressed to her, in lovely handwriting that Judy didn’t recognize. She turned it around for a few seconds, inspecting it, before tucking it into her coat pocket and looking to Doralee, who gazed back at her expectantly with parchment in her hands. It took Judy mere seconds to realize what was in her friend’s grasp; it was the painting of Violet that had kept Judy up into the wee hours of the morning. And now Doralee was holding it. “Oh…” was all Judy could muster.

“Who’s this?” Asked Doralee.

Judy sighed. “That’s… Violet. I met her yesterday. In the park.”

Doralee raised both eyebrows. “She’s the woman on the bench?" Judy nodded. "So ya did learn her name.”

“Yes, but I -” Judy faltered, blush staining her cheeks. “I didn’t get her address… or even her last name.” Doralee seated herself on Judy’s bed, looking at her to continue. Judy cupped her own cheek, gnawing her lower lip. “I painted her in the park yesterday, and when I started packing to leave, she approached me to see what I’d been working on, and then she offered to help carry my things back to the school, and I thought she was very lovely so I painted her… that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Questioned Doralee.

Judy looked away. “Yes.” And there she was, lying again. To Doralee. Judy felt so terrible, but she feared if she kept talking about Violet, she would say something she shouldn’t. It made no sense to her, but Violet’s appearance in Judy’s life was like nothing she had ever experienced. She felt wholly too obsessed with the woman, and something about that made Judy worry. She shook her head, rubbing her cheek. “And anyway, it isn’t like I’ll ever see her again.”

Doralee pursed her lips, murmuring softly to herself, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Judy narrowed her eyes. “Doralee…”

“What?” Doralee practically purred, batting her lashes innocently at Judy.

Judy tucked hair behind her ear, reaching to take the parchment from her hands. “Doralee, I am saying this as your closest friend: please do not go looking for Violet.”

Doralee pouted then. “Oh but Judy! Jus’ think-”

Judy huffed. “I will not be doing any thinking, Doralee.” Doralee grumbled to herself, handing Judy the painting finally. Judy held it up in the light, struck by it. She missed Violet terribly, and the fact that she did was incomprehensible. She didn’t even know Violet. Oh, but she wanted to. Maybe she would let Doralee… Judy shook her head, placing the parchment in her bedside dresser drawer.

“You’re upset wit’ me now, huh?” Doralee said, and Judy scoffed, snickering.

“No, I could never be,” she said, crossing to sit beside Doralee on her own bed. “What were you saying before?”

Doralee scrunched her face. “I… ain’t sure.” She shrugged and grinned like a dope, nudging Judy. “How about we go for a walk?”

“A walk?”

“Well, you’re still in your coat so…” Doralee pointed out, and Judy giggled. How silly of her. Doralee smiled, standing up and retrieving her own coat from Judy’s closet. They left Judy’s room, arms linked as they took the stairs down one by one. Judy listened to Doralee chatter on once more, half listening and half thinking of other things. Things that happened to be Violet. Judy wondered if Violet had become her muse. How was she to know? She thought of her dear instructor and all the paintings of his wife that had been so proudly displayed in his studio. He had called his wife his muse very often, and Judy had always thought it was because he loved her. She certainly didn’t love Violet. At least, Judy thought she didn’t.

It was bitterly cold for early autumn.

Judy stood outside a bakery, waiting for Doralee, with her arms wrapped around herself as her teeth chattered. She wished dearly to be inside, surrounded by the warmth of the baked goods, but she was acutely aware of the fact that the baker would no doubt convince her to leave with half the store’s inventory. Judy was far too weak for a loaf of fresh-baked bread and a pretty smile, and the baker… Well, she had a very lovely smile. So instead Judy stood outside, in the frigid cold, rocking back and forth on her heels as she glanced around the street. She had taken to people-watching for the time being - until Doralee rejoined her - and there were few people out beside herself. Judy foolishly hoped to spot Violet amongst the handful of passersby; her heart would jolt with each glance to a particularly tall person who happened to stroll by her. In this weather, she hardly expected to see the woman out and about, but a small portion of her heart remained hopeful.

“Excuse me,” said a man as he strode by Judy, a gust of harshly cold air in his wake.

Judy shivered, stowing her hands into her coat pockets, and she paused when she felt a scrap of parchment. She shifted, fishing it from her pocket out into the open air. A sigh escaped her; it was the letter Kathy had delivered before she and Doralee had left. Turning the paper about in her hands, she pondered over who had sent her a letter out of the blue. Her mother was the obvious choice, but Judy knew her mother’s handwriting well and the writing on the paper certainly didn’t belong to Josephine Bernly. So who else? There was no name on the envelope beside her own. Had Henri sent this? Judy pursed her lips; he preferred telegrams nowadays. Doralee? Judy shook her head; she was  _ with _ Doralee. Rolling her eyes at her own silliness, Judy decided simply to open the letter and read it. That would solve this little mystery. With frozen, trembly fingers, she peeled open the envelope, prying out the folded parchment and unfurling it. The letter read:

_ To Miss Judy Bernly, _

_ hello. I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to you at the risk of coming across as too forward, but after our chanced meeting yesterday, how could I not? You are quite the painter, Miss Bernly. I would love to see more of your work, if you would let me. And perhaps, if you are interested, we could schedule a meeting of some sort soon. I could model for you again - if you wanted - though I am not sure I was any good the first time round. But you are the artist so you would know better than I.  _

_ I will admit I am some-what anxious about writing to you; I hope this letter is not ill-received, but I felt urged to contact you. To be frank, I have not been able to stop myself from thinking of you. You differ so greatly from anyone else I know, it perplexes me. I really would like to meet again some-time, if that sounds at all appealing to you. I’ve written my address at the bottom of this letter in case you have a desire to reply. _

_ Yours, _

_ Violet Newstead _

_ Postscript - I often visit the park on Thursday afternoons, in case we happen to “bump” into one another again. _

Judy was well and truly shaking now. She glanced to her surroundings, finding herself in the park. Sighing, she held the parchment to her chest; she must have walked off as she read the letter. Violet’s letter. Judy’s heart clenched in her chest, and she was sure she had never felt so elated. Violet thought of her. Violet wanted to see her. Oh Judy could die a happy woman in that instant, but she would rather see Violet again. What were the odds of Violet feeling so as Judy felt? Her eyes traveled over the expanse of the park until they found their destination: the bench. She smiled, treading faster on the cobblestone path. She nearly threw herself down onto the bench, a grin across her lips as she hugged the letter. She would have to write back as soon as she possibly could; Judy had no wish to keep Violet waiting. After all, Violet  _ wanted _ to see her. The very thought brought a warmth to Judy’s chest, a warmth that grew and expanded, traveled through her arms and legs into her fingertips and toes, setting her alight in the harsh cold weather around her. Oh but the weather didn’t matter. No, it didn’t matter to Judy one bit because Violet - Violet Newstead, as her letter read - was thinking of  _ her. _ Judy felt as though she were as light as a feather.

“Oh Violet,” she murmured, folding the parchment along its original folding lines. She inhaled, pausing for a moment, before pressing her lips to the paper and sighing. Her heart was pressing so hard against her chest that Judy thought it might burst free. Goodness, what a sight that would be. As glad as she was that Violet had written to her, Judy’s own reaction to the letter only confused her further. Never had she felt so… so…  _ passionate _ about another person in all her life. She had already begun to draft her reply to Violet in her mind. Perhaps they could meet in the park again, on this bench. Their bench. The idea of anything being theirs - not just Judy’s or not just Violet’s, but  _ theirs _ \- made her heart feel as though it were pounding in her throat, keeping her from being able to draw a full breath. What a complete mess she was, Judy thought.

“Judy! Judy Bernly!” She heard distantly. Swiftly snapped from her internal monologue, Judy looked to the source of the voice and slapped her forehead in disbelief. She had completely abandoned her friend. Doralee was surely not going to be happy about that. She was most likely tramping through the streets looking for her, a woman on a rampage. Judy suddenly felt very, very bad.

“Oh Doralere, I am so sorry!” she yelled out hastily, rising onto unsteady legs and running toward her friend, tucking the letter into her pocket as she moved. “I’m coming!” This would not go well.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudos/comment if u enjoyed and find me on tumblr @ bernly


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